


Keep Checking the Horizon

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 18:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8255404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

Monday  
It starts out much the same as every other day, right before the polished walnut veneer on Dean Smith’s world gets cracked.  
He gets up at 6am precisely. He doesn’t hit snooze. When the alarm goes off, he sits up, stretches a little and swings his legs out of bed. He needs to do a hundred crunches, thirty pull-ups and fifty lunges before he hits the shower. Maintaining a good physique is ten percent motivation and ninety percent habit. That’s what most people don’t realise. You have to take the thought out of it. Just get up and do it. He can’t deviate from his routine. That would be a slippery slope.  
While he’s showering, Dean brews himself a strong cup of espresso. It’s a little indulgent but he’s damned if he can give it up. The smell of freshly made coffee is like an olfactory hug, and he figures in the scheme of things it’s not such a terrible vice. He drinks it stood at the breakfast bar with a towel wrapped around his waist, while he makes himself an omelette (three whites, one yolk). He eats it slowly, washes it down with some freshly squeezed orange juice.  
Once he’s finished breakfast, he dresses in a dove grey Armani suit with a crisp blue shirt. He puts on red suspenders and a matching tie. Sure, he’s a pretty senior executive, but he’s not a total stiff. He likes to inject a little individuality into his work attire. There’s something about the suspenders he likes. They’re a little old fashioned, a little quirky, but dapper. Dean knows he’s a handsome guy – that’s not vanity, just a scientific fact. He can carry them off.  
He drives his silver Prius to the office. He likes to listen to talk radio on the way. Music riles him up, makes him want to drive too fast, so instead he catches up with the news. He likes to keep abreast of what’s going on in the world, although he doesn’t get to see much of it outside his apartment, his car and his twenty first floor corner office. It gives him stuff to talk about at the water cooler.  
He parks in his allocated space and strolls to the lobby, checking his parting in the slick glass surfaces of the building as he approaches. His heels tap-tap on the marble floor as he makes his way to the elevator and tosses a cheery good morning over his shoulder at security. He jabs the call button and waits for the bell. The doors glide open and he steps inside, presses ‘21’ and turns just in time to see a flash of pale lemon and grey before they slide shut again. Dean thinks about hitting the hold button. He thinks for a fraction too long, and decides the moment’s gone. But then one huge hand appears in the tiny space between the doors and they judder open again.  
Awkward. Dean moves his hand swiftly to the control panel, and he makes a show of tapping the button repeatedly, adopting vague air of bafflement which he hopes will convince the other man that he was all for waiting, and that the elevator doors somehow overrode his good intentions. He kind of resents the guy for putting him in this situation. Jerk. He should have just waited for the next one and spared them both the embarrassment.  
“Thanks!”  
A rich, warm voice startles him out of his thoughts on lift etiquette. The guy has got to be six and a half feet tall. No exaggeration. Dean is no short-ass and this dude towers over him. He’s too much in his space. He looks ill at ease in his yellow aertex shirt and flannel pants. The tee stretches over broad shoulders and swells of musculature Dean has only ever seen in Men’s Health. He’s a little envious of that physique. There’s a sheen of sweat in the hollow of the guy’s throat even though the sun is still low in the sky, the sidewalks draped in cool shadow, and the office atmosphere air-con chilled. The guy catches him looking and says,  
“Hey. Do I know you?”  
Great! What’s this now? Is the dude hitting on him? Maybe. Figures. He looks the type. A gym bunny with hair which appears carelessly tousled but probably takes more styling than Dean’s own well-coiffed effort. A pair of keen eyes are staring at him now, appraising, waiting. They are slanted and clever and, if Dean’s not mistaken, muli-colored, glinting like fire opals in the relative gloom of the elevator. And why is he staring into the guy’s eyes? Shit.  
“Look, pal,” he says in his gruffest voice. “Save it for the health club, OK?”  
The man looks wounded for a second, genuinely upset, and Dean feels a pang of something like a slug to the gut.  
“I’m sorry,” the guy says. “It’s just you look really, really familiar. I thought…forget it.”  
The elevator stops and the doors open with a ping. The guy gets out and Dean stares after him.

He has croutons on his salad at lunch, and a dollop of creamy dressing. He feels bad immediately afterwards and Googles detox diets. He makes a mental note to stock up on maple syrup, lemons and cayenne on the way home.  
He works his way through his inbox, but for every e-mail he marks as resolved and files away, eight more flood in. The phone rings constantly. His boss swings by more than once, and there’s a constant stream of people waiting to knock on his office door wanting urgent favours, advice, approvals, sign-offs, decisions. Before he knows it, it’s 7pm and he hasn’t accomplished a damn thing. His PA (Ann, Annie, Amy - he can never remember her freaking name) tells him she’s going home and he breathes a sigh of relief because with the office emptying, he’ll finally get some peace. Only now his head is pounding and he’s having trouble focusing so after a couple more hours, he decides to call it a night.  
He saves and closes the spread sheets he’s been working on, then his mailbox and various word documents and reports. He always switches his machine off at night, although God knows why he bothers. Every other asshole at Sandover Inc. seems Hell-bent on melting the polar ice caps as quickly as possible. What’s the point of running a paperless office policy when they don’t enforce energy-saving measures?  
He hits ‘shut down’, but before the screen blinks off, he sees something; a face reflected in its dark surface. His heart stutters and he whips around, but there is no one standing behind him and when he looks again, the monitor is black. He squinches his eyes closed opens them again, the image slowly fading, but as he’s about to put the whole thing down to tiredness and a trick of the light, he hears someone whisper his name.  
The voice sends a cold feeling wicking down his spine. It’s close, like someone sighing it right into his ear, and yet somehow not even in the room with him. A voice belonging to another time or place entirely. Dean snatches up his car keys and bolts for the door.  
He drives home via the store, and by the time he gets home, he’s almost smiling at the way he spooked himself back there. Almost. There’s just time for a quick liquid dinner of the Master Cleanse concoction and an hour of television news before bed.

Tuesday  
6am. Cardio today. Dean gets out of bed, puts on sweats and an old worn-thin tee and jogs around the neighbouring blocks for an hour. He listens to The Very Best of Hall and Oates on his iPod and concentrates on keeping his breaths slow and deep. It’s a slog this morning. He feels muzzy, like he’s been drinking – which, of course, he hasn’t. Drinking beer in the week is a sin on a par with having pasta for dinner and following it with a litre of Ben & Jerry’s. It ain’t gonna happen in this life time! But he can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. He thinks it might be the hangover from a bad dream. It’s like he needs to remember something, but the more he focuses on the forgotten thing, the further out of reach it gets. Like bobbing for an apple in the ocean.  
He gets to the office at 8:45. He walks through reception, sucking on a breath mint and smiling pleasantly at the woman on the front desk. But his quick strides falter when he sees him standing by the elevator. The guy from yesterday. Is he waiting for him? That’s all he needs, some frigging stalker. No, that’s ridiculous. They’ve obviously just managed to synchronize their routines. It happens. Usually Dean wouldn’t think anything of it. He must pass the same cars on his way across town in the mornings. He probably queues with all the same people most days at 1pm in the sandwich shop over the street. But something about this guy has him rattled.  
“Morning.”  
The man ducks his head slightly, almost apologizing for his height. For some strange reason that twists Dean up inside. Dude’s looking at him like a kicked puppy. Dean’s eyes flick down to the breast of the guy’s yellow tee where he sees he’s wearing a name badge over one well defined pec.  
SAM TECH SUPPORT  
He clears his throat.  
“Morning, uh, Sam.”  
He’s overcompensating for yesterday. Stupid, he knows, but he kind of feels bad for jumping down his throat. And the name feels kind of right on his tongue, although he’s pretty sure he’s never known a Sam. The man’s eyes light up and he smiles wide, revealing straight white teeth. The lift arrives and Dean hangs back to let Sam in first.  
“It’s warm out, huh,” Sam says and Dean hears the long, rounded way he pronounces his ‘r’s. It reminds him of home. Of the vast flat expanse of Kansas where he could always see the horizon. .  
“Uh, yeah,” Dean agrees, although it’s not all that balmy today. Guy probably generates some serious heat just keeping that gigantor body running. He’s trying to remember which floor Sam needs, praying silently that this ascent will be over soon before things get any more awkward. The elevator slows to a halt and Sam sidles past him.  
“Well, you have a good day,” he says, that easy smile dimpling his cheeks again.  
Dean nods. “And you.” He feels like such an idiot.  
By midmorning, Dean is starving. It’s just more of that gross maple and cayenne shit for lunch, so he allows himself a handful of carrot sticks and some fresh juice. It makes him feel marginally better.  
He’s working on some projections for the next fiscal year to present to the board of directors when his PC starts acting screwy. The screen blinks on and off several times, so Dean hits save before fiddling with the cables to make sure nothing’s come loose. When it keeps playing up, he shuts down and reboots, but after two minutes the monitor starts flashing again. This time Dean sees it. The face in the glass. Although it’s broad daylight and the constant drone of voices, keyboards tapping and phones ringing beyond his office door is banal and reassuring, a shiver runs through Dean. The face is getting clearer. It’s like the aftermath of looking at something so bright that burns in. It’s shifting and changing and when Dean closes his eyes, he can still see it.  
Then the voice starts again, making his stomach flip like he’s falling.  
Dean! Can you hear me? Dean?  
Dean slides down under his desk and rips the plug out of the socket, but the face remains and the whispering carries on. He moves to the door and pulls it open, trying to look nonchalant. His PA is sitting at her desk and looks up when he clears his throat.  
“Um,” shit, what is her name, “could you come in here a sec?”  
“Sure.”  
Angela, Annabel, Abigail, whatever stands and follows Dean back into his office.  
“What can I do for you, Mr. Smith?”  
She’s poised, notebook and pen in hand.  
“Do you hear something? Like a voice?”  
The PA looks non-plussed. She cocks her head and frowns.  
“You mean in here? Not out there?”  
Dean nods. She listens for a while then shakes her head.  
“Nope. Are you alright, sir?”  
Dean forces a smile.  
“Yeah, yeah. Fine. I think the acoustics in this office are a little weird. Sorry to have bothered you.”  
She returns his smile and spins on her heel, leaving and shutting the door gently behind her.  
Dean looks back at his computer. The face is gone. He plugs it back in but nothing happens and there’s a vague smell of burning from under the desk.  
“That’s just great,” he mutters and grabs his phone, punching in the extension for the IT helpdesk.  
“Good morning, Tech Support. Sam Wesson speaking. What seems to be the problem?”  
Sam Wesson. Lift dude. His drawl catches Dean off guard.  
“Uh, hi. This is Dean Smith, Sales and Marketing. My computer is acting weird.”  
There’s a gentle rumble of laughter from the other end of the line and it sends warmth through him like a shot of good bourbon.  
“Gonna have to be a little more specific, I’m afraid.”  
“Well, it…the screen kept going blank, then there were images – but fuzzy like on an old fashioned TV when you got the buttons stuck between stations and…I guess you’re too young to remember that, I don’t know -”  
“Sir,” Sam’s voice interrupts his babbling. “That sounds like a connectivity problem. You check the leads?”  
“Yes,” says Dean. “They’re all fine. It’s more like – interference.”  
“Interference? That’ impossible, sir. Did you try switching the machine off and on again?”  
Dean presses his lips together hard to prevent a string of curse words exploding out from between them. He takes a deep breath through his nose.  
“Yes, Sam. I did try switching off and on again and now it won’t do anything at all. I’m gonna need someone to come take a look.”  
“OK then. You wanna write down this job number and someone will be up in the next hour or two.”  
“An hour or two?” Dean says incredulously. “What am I supposed to do for the next two hours? Sit here with my thumb up my -”  
“Sir, we’ll get someone up to you ASAP. I’m afraid it’s a queue system. We’ve had a lot of issues today.”  
“I appreciate that, but I have to get this presentation done like yesterday or the VP is gonna tear me a new hole. Is there anything you can do here? Sam? Sam the Man? Sammy?”  
There’s silence for a few heartbeats then the IT guys says,  
“What did you call me?”  
His voice is quiet and kind of shocked sounding. Dean swallows. Maybe the dude’s unstable. Maybe he’s inadvertently offended his code of ethics or whatever and now the huge lug is gonna be waiting for him at the end of the day. If there’s one thing Dean hates, it’s physical violence. He’s not good with pain.  
“Sorry, man. My bad. That was inappropriate. I was just -”  
“No!” Sam says quickly. “I mean…I liked it. No one’s called me Sammy for…”  
He trails off. OK, this is getting rapidly freaky. Dean wracks his brain, trying to find the words that will get them back on the rails.  
“So, within the next couple hours then?”  
“Uh, no. That’s OK,” Sam says. “I’m coming up now.”

Sam’s massive hand knocks at the frosted pane of glass so hard, Dean worries it’s going to shatter. Kid probably doesn’t know his own strength.  
“Yeah, come in!”  
He stands in the doorway, head skimming the lintel.  
“Oh, hi!” says Sam. “It’s you. From the elevator.”  
Jesus. This guy must have part of his brain missing or something. He has a seemingly endless capacity for awkward.  
“Uh, yeah. Dean. Dean Smith. Thanks for coming so quickly. Really appreciate it, man. I need these figures by this afternoon or someone will have my guts for suspenders.”  
Sam nods. He has this really intense look, those multi-faceted eyes boring into Dean. Maybe he was right the first time. Maybe the guy was checking him out. Wouldn’t be the first time Dean had attracted unwanted advances. Come to think of it, it happens quite a lot. Maybe he should be concerned about that. Why do all these people assume he’s gay? Just because he’s well groomed, doesn’t mean he bats for the -  
“No problem. Happy to help. I know how it goes. Just don’t tell my boss I gave you preferential treatment.”  
Sam smiles that dimpled smile and moves over to where Dean’s computer squats uselessly under his desk.  
“Smells like an electrical fire. Maybe something shorted out. You see any sparks or smoke or anything like that?”  
Dean shakes his head.  
“No. But I told you about the weird interference, right? Maybe that had something to do with it. Power surge or something?”  
Sam stands and puts his hands on his hips.  
“Well, whatever it was, this machine is dead. Sorry, man. We’re gonna have to order you a new one.”  
“How long will that take?”  
“A day or two. In the mean time we can hook your laptop up to the network. I hope you saved everything you were working on somewhere central.”  
He smiles again but Dean feels the blood drain from his face as his heart stutters.  
“My presentation. It was on my desktop.”  
Sam winces.  
“Oh. Oh shoot. That’s not good. Well, I can take this baby apart, see what we can salvage, but I’m afraid you won’t have anything by this afternoon. Sorry, Dean.”  
Hearing his Christian name jars. He’s a director. He’s used to people calling him Mr. Smith and Sir. But oddly, he doesn’t mind it coming from Sam. It seems familiar somehow. Old. Christ, he’s cracking up. Maybe he should eat some solid food. Get some protein.  
“Thanks anyway.”  
Sam removes the computer and sets up Dean’s laptop with access to the server.  
“I’ll leave you to it.”  
Sam leaves, and Dean sits staring at a blank PowerPoint slide for long minutes before he finds the impetus to start typing.

Even though he forwards his phone to voicemail, tells Aileen, Ashley, Andrea – whatever - not to let anyone in, and works through lunch, his presentation is rushed and substandard. He can tell Adler is pissed at him. Nothing is said, but Dean suspects a storm is brewing. There’s a low level, gnawing anxiety in his gut for the rest of the afternoon, and when it starts to get dark, Dean decides to break the habit of a lifetime and go for a drink on the way home. He just needs something to take the edge off, to dull this weird, displaced feeling that’s been dogging him all day.  
He finds a bar in town. The lighting is dim, the fabric covering the booths a deep, dark red and there’s classic rock on the jukebox. It’s not the sort of dive Dean would usually be caught dead in, but it’s what he needs tonight, though he couldn’t tell you why.  
He orders a scotch and a bottle of light beer. The first pull his cold and heavenly slipping down his throat, and the whiskey is a welcome burn. He feels a stab of guilt about the carbs but decides to Hell with it. There’s a woman sitting by herself across the bar. She’s about Dean’s age, maybe a bit younger. She looks physically fit and she’s attractive enough. She tilts her glass towards him and smiles. Dean returns the gesture, but he concentrates on keeping his expression closed. It’s been a while since he’s had female company, and he feels his dick start to chub up at the thought of taking someone home, working out some frustration with a warm, pliant body under his, but the whole one night stand thing always leaves him feeling a little hollowed out, and he doesn’t have time for a relationship. He can feel the woman trying to catch his eye, sees her moving in his periphery, but he deliberately avoids her. After a while she gets the message. Dean orders another beer.  
He’s been in the bar about an hour, watching people come and go, exchanging a few words with the bartender. He’s starting to feel a little drunk, and a lot better about the whole debacle earlier. He gets to thinking about the way his computer seemed to implode of its own accord, and as if by magic he hears Sam’s laugh. He whirls around on his barstool. There he is. The big goofball is with two other guys wearing the same God-awful yellow and grey ensemble. Co-workers.  
“Phew,” Sam is saying. “What the Hell was all that? Never known a day like it.”  
“What in the whole…let me see…three weeks you been working here.” This guy is shorter than Sam by a head and a half. Scruffy stubble. Thick glasses. He looks like a typical nerd.  
Sam laughs again. He claps the nerdy guy on the shoulder and holds three fingers up to the bartender.  
Dean tries to make himself small. Invisible. He turns his head down and away, pretending to be engrossed in something happening down by his shoes. But it’s too late.  
“Hey! Dean!” Sam says, sidling closer. “I thought it was you. Those red suspenders are a give-away.”  
He whistles. Dean looks down at himself and shakes his head, smiling despite himself.  
“I guess they are. Hi – um – Sam. How’s my computer doing?”  
“Your computer is what we in the trade called ‘screwed’. It’s a technical term. Sorry man. I’ma see what I can pull off the hard drive tomorrow. So if you have anything on there I need warning about, you’d better spill now.”  
He laughs again and leans in close enough to dig an elbow into Dean’s ribs.  
“No. No, it’s all good,” Dean says talking a swig of lager and trying to extract himself carefully from Sam’s side. The dude seems to have no concept of personal space. It’s…annoying. At least it should be.  
Sam digs into his back pocket, looking for money, and Dean’s sense of corporate politics kicks in. He should make a gesture, as Sam’s superior.  
“Hey, these are on me.” He gets out his wallet and pulls out a crisp twenty. “For going above and beyond earlier.”  
Sam hesitates. His gaze flits over Dean, probably taking in the sharply pressed collar of his shirt, his gold cufflinks, the expensive cut of his pants. He nods.  
“Thanks.”  
Dean clinks the necks of their beer bottles together and watches Sam retreat to his friends. But before Dean can take another swallow, he feels a large hand come to rest on his back. He stiffens, turns to see Sam back at his side.  
“So,” he says, taking a drink. “Did you manage to get your thing redone in time?”  
Dean blinks, still focused on the heat bleeding through the cotton of his shirt from Sam’s hand.  
“My what?”  
“The thing you saved to your desktop. It didn’t set you back too much, the comp crashing like that?”  
“Oh, right,” Dean says dumbly. “Nah, it was…I mean it doesn’t…I’d rather not talk about it.”  
His temples are starting to throb and he thinks he can actually feel his blood pressure rising.  
“Well,” says Sam, taking his hand away, “that’s the attitude. I mean, it’s just work, right? What’s important today probably won’t be tomorrow.”  
Dean frowns. What the Hell is this guy on. Probably some kind of hippy. Money can’t buy happiness. Materials possessions are the devil’s work. All that bullshit.  
“What are you talking about?”  
“I mean everyone needs something now. A report. A print out. Figures for this that and the other. A working PC. But when you stop and think about it, what’s the worst thing that can happen if it doesn’t get done?”  
“I don’t follow.”  
“I mean tomorrow, it’s just gonna be a whole new set of things you need to do. By the time you complete one task, three more have rolled in. It’s just an endless chain of things that need to get done urgently between here and death. A no-man’s land of stats and objectives reaching forever. Limbo. Don’t you ever just stop and think, is this all there is?”  
Sam is looking at Dean with a fervent expression, his fascinating eyes gleaming with a mixture of fear and exasperation.  
Dean knows his mouth is open, jaw working up and down as he flounders, looking for a suitable response.  
“Shit. Sorry!” says Sam, his face relaxing, the dimples studding his cheeks once again. “I don’t know where that came from. I’m rambling. I do that. I ramble. I’m a rambler. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately. Must be the stress of a new job I guess.”  
Dean huffs out a breath, relieved they seem to be back on even ground. The kid’s a bit of a loose cannon. He’s certainly not the quiet, borderline autism case Sandover usually employs in Tech Support.  
“Yeah, it can be…stressful. Don’t worry about it, man. It’s been one of those days. So on that note…”  
Dean stands up and puts on his jacket.  
“You’re going?” Sam asks, and Dean could swear there’s disappointment coloring his voice.  
“Yeah. It’s getting late and I have an early start tomorrow. Like you said, it’s never-ending.”  
“Stay for one more,” Sam says, touching the cuff of his jacket lightly. It’s so childish and desperate that for a second Dean thinks he can perfectly imagine what Sam would have looked like as a little boy. The image blindsides him, makes him feel strangely protective, and before he knows what’s happening, he sitting back on the bar stool and ordering another round.  
One round becomes two and then three more. Sam’s friends leave, not having spoken a word to him all night. Dean is drunk. He’ll have to leave the car here. He’s vaguely aware he should be annoyed with himself. He will feel rotten at his desk tomorrow, his detox is ruined and his morning workout will be Hell. But he can’t find it in him to care right now. Sam is a weird guy, but good company. Dean can’t shake the feeling that they’ve met before. He feels bad for jumping to conclusions yesterday in the lift, because he gets it now. There is something so familiar about the grown out hair, the feline eyes, those damn dimples. Even the way that Sasquatch frame is all up in his face. It should drive him crazy. Dean is a very private person. But somehow it doesn’t. It’s sort of comforting.  
When they finally part ways for the evening, Dean holds his hand out for Sam to shake, but the younger man grips his forearm and pulls him into a sort of hug. He slaps him on the back a couple of times before releasing him. Dean finds himself swaying on his feet, craving more of that affection, and glad that he’s too inebriated to feel as mortified as he knows he should.

Wednesday  
6am. Yup. His head is throbbing and he’s queasy. Last night comes back to him piecemeal, in flashing images and remembered snippets. This is all Sam’s fault. What was he thinking, trying to keep up with a guy like that? He probably got the metabolism of a racehorse. Dean remembers he’s left his car outside the bar so he figures he’ll run there, pick it up and drive the rest of the way to office. That way he can sleep in a little. He can shower at work. Hopefully he’ll sweat some of the toxins out of his body.  
7:30am. He eats a banana, packs a rucksack and sets out. His head throbs, jolting as his feet pound the pavement, but it feels like doing penance which helps to minimise the creeping sense of directionless shame. He vows never to drink again.  
At 8:50, he gets to the office just in time to see Sam rounding the corner. He looks fresh and completely unaffected by the copious shots and bottles he downed last night. Bastard. Dean is sour with sweat and he can smell stale beer wafting off himself. He thinks about hiding, but it’s too late. Sam is waving at him, face already breaking out into that stupid grin.  
“Hey, Dean!”  
Dean checks over his shoulder to make sure no one is around to overhear.  
“Hey,” he says, his smile a little forced. “You look…fresher than I feel.”  
Sam laughs and claps him on the shoulder, mindless of fact he’s all sticky and gross, as they enter the revolving doors. The receptionist smiles indulgently at them as they pass, and Dean feels self-conscious suddenly, like he’s got food on his face or forgotten to wear pants. They walk to the elevator, their strides falling into sync, Sam’s shoulder bumping Dean’s when they come to a halt.  
“I’ll get onto your machine as soon as I’ve caffeinated,” Sam says as they get into the lift, and he punches the buttons for both of their floors.  
“Great, thanks,” says Dean, wishing the smooth motion of the lift wasn’t making him nauseous.  
“And, you know, thanks for last night, man. It was fun.”  
Dean nods, feely strangely proud that Sam thinks he’s fun, but also a little uncomfortable that he’s just made it sound like a date. He’s still a little unclear as to what this guy wants from him. Sam gets out at his floor, the back of his hand brushing Dean’s as he passes. There’s a queasy fluttering in Dean’s belly and he isn’t certain it’s just the drink churning him up inside.

Dean’s doing his best to listen what’s being said on a conference call when there’s a knock at his office door. He mutes his line, confident that twenty other people talking at cross purposes won’t notice his absence and calls,  
“Yeah – come in!”  
Sam’s shaggy head pops around the door.  
“Bad time?”  
Dean shrugs.  
“Nah. Come on in. I think they’re wrapping it up.”  
He keeps his headset on and watches Sam bring in a large box containing his brand spanking new PC. He breaks the tape and starts unpacking the various components, making enough noise that Dean really can’t follow the call anymore. Finally he hears a few distant ‘goodbyes’ and vaguely hopes there weren’t any action points for him in there. He hangs up and takes off the headset.  
“So, your hard drive is totally scrambled. We need to start from scratch,” Sam says cheerfully.  
Dean sighs and nods, getting up to move his laptop and make room for Sam to work.  
“In that case, I’m gonna get a coffee. You want one?”  
Sam grins.  
“Don’t you have someone to do that for you?”  
His eyebrows are raised, teasing.  
“Well, I thought I’d climb down from my ivory tower and do it myself for once, as you’re taking up my whole office with your techno-crap. So do you want anything or not…bitch?”  
Dean feels a hot flush spreading up his neck as soon as he hears that slip out of his mouth, it’s totally unprofessional, but Sam just splutters and laughs and his eyes go wide, feigning offence.  
“I’ll take a latte with a shot of vanilla if you’re offering. Jerk.”  
That punches a surprised laugh out of Dean. He’s not used to this easy camaraderie and he has a weird sense of déjà vu.  
“Vanilla latte? Seriously?”  
Sam just looks at him, non-plussed.  
“Well, OK then. Wasn’t so hard, was it?”  
He grabs his jacket from the back of the door and heads out.

By the time he gets back, Sam is hunched over his desk, staring at the new monitor with a crinkled brow. He puts Sam’s girly coffee down next to him and peers over his shoulder.  
“Thanks,” says Sam distractedly.  
He’s watching what appears to be a start-up screen, but instead of the usual jumble of code, there are words blinking on the screen.  
“What’s up with that?” Dean asks.  
Sam shakes his head slowly.  
“This is weird. Really weird. I just…I’ve never seen anything like it.”  
Dean leans in to get a closer look at the text. He reads them aloud.  
“You run a pirate orgy? What the hell?”  
“I wish I knew,” says Sam. “Maybe it’s some kind of virus. But it’s a brand new machine. I don’t get it. And I can’t even shut it down. Look!”  
Sam crawls under the desk and rips the plug from the socket. The letters remain on the screen.  
“OK,” says Dean, biting his lip nervously. “That’s just freaky.” His pulse is picking up.  
Sam stands and runs his fingers through his unruly hair. He picks up his coffee and sips it thoughtfully.  
“Maybe it’s haunted,” he says.  
Dean thinks back to the causeless reflection, the disembodied voice. He snorts, going for dismissive but it just sounds kind of choked.  
“You don’t believe in all that crap?” he says.  
Sam’s mouth tugs down at the corners, like he’s weighing it up.  
“Maybe. I don’t know. I mean, this is technically impossible, right? It’s inexplicable. So maybe you have a haunted machine. It’s as good a theory as any.”  
“A ghost in my machine? Oh come on!”  
Sam opens his mouth to say something, but is pulled up sharp by the words on the monitor multiplying and scrolling up, like movie credits, getting faster and faster.  
YOU RUN A PIRATE ORGY  
Then they start to change,  
CASCASCASCASCASCASCASCASCASCASCAS  
LEV LEVI LEV 8:16 8:16 LEVI 8:16  
On and on until there is a loud bang which makes both men spring back, coffee sloshing everywhere, and a shower of blue sparks erupts out of the screen. It seems to melt and crumple in on itself, and finally goes black.  
“Well fuck,” says Dean, feeling the f-bomb is totally justified, considering they both just nearly got electrocuted.  
“Yeah,” Sam agrees.

They stop at a store for beers on the way back to Dean’s, his ‘never drinking again’ vow forgotten. Sam lets out a low whistle when they step inside the apartment.  
“This is nice. Very nice.”  
“Thanks.”  
Sam takes his laptop bag off his shoulder, put it down on the couch and saunters over to the window to check out the view over the city while Dean uncaps a couple of bottles. He moves over to Sam and hands him one.  
“So, where do we start?” he asks.  
Sam sits on the couch and unzips his laptop case. He fires up the computer and starts to tap away furiously.  
“Well, I already did some prelim searches for all combinations of the words and the only bit which makes any kind of sense is LEV 8:16. It’s the first thing that pops up. Lev could stands for Leviticus, right? So maybe it’s a Bible passage.”  
Dean nods.  
“So what’s it say? Leviticus?”  
“None of you shall approach any one of his close relatives to uncover nakedness.”  
“What the Hell?”  
“Exactly. And the rest of the words, you Google them and nothing. So I figured maybe this first bit is some kind of riddle?”  
“Yeah, could be,” Dean agrees, taking a swig of beer and settling down next to Sam. He loosens his tie and unbuttons the top of his shirt.  
“Shall we get pizza first?” Sam asks. “I’m starving, man.”  
Dean blinks. Pizza? Doesn’t the guy know that’s about the most calorific thing you can put in your body? Might as well cut right to the chase and strap a tub of lard to his ass.  
“Uh, sure. OK,” he hears himself say.  
“I’ll do it online,” Sam says. “What do you want on it?”  
“Vegetables,” Dean says. “Do they come with vegetables?”  
Sam looks at it him incredulously.  
“You never order pizza?” he asks.  
Dean’s cheeks get hot.  
“Not for a while,” he says quietly.  
Sam shakes his head and laughs.  
“One vegetarian pizza coming up.”

The food is actually delicious. Dean understands why he’s been avoiding it for as long as he can remember – if he’d remembered how good it was he’d have been eating it every day. He and Sam watch a little baseball on television while they eat. They get really into the game and Dean finds himself hollering with Sam at the TV and slapping him on the back when the T-Bones score a home run. Dean’s almost forgotten why Sam’s there when suddenly he leaps to his feet and shouts,  
“Anagram!”  
“What?” Dean says dumbly, his reflexes a little slowed by all the beer and carbs.  
“It must be an anagram!” He grabs the computer and sits back down. Starts pounding the keys. “Shit! There’s almost ninety thousand permutations.”  
“Yeah, we have to be back in the office in like ten hours.”  
Sam sighs.  
“OK, well, I’ll start from the top of the list. Gimme your phone. I’ll find the webpage and you can start from the bottom.”  
Dean rolls his eyes and hands over his phone. Within in minutes of Sam passing it back, his eyes are losing focus and he has to stifle a yawn.  
“Sam, we don’t even know what we’re looking for. This is nuts.”  
Sam looks up from his laptop and closes his eyes.  
“You’re right. Sorry. I just…This has got me riled, you know? The mystery. I feel like there’s something I need to do. Something huge. Like I’m just wasting time in that cubicle day in day out -”  
“I’m pretty sure everyone feels like that sometimes.”  
Sam studies him hard.  
“Really? I thought you had it all sewn up. Company man and all that.”  
Dean smiles wanly.  
“Maybe.”  
Sam puts the computer to one side again.  
“So what’s your story? You’re from Kansas originally. Been in Columbus, what, five years now? What about before that?”  
Dean shakes his head.  
“It’s too boring to get into. Trust me.”  
“What about family?”  
Dean swallows past a lump in his gullet.  
“Dead. All dead.”  
Sam looks down at his hands where they are worrying at a pulled thread on his chinos.  
“Sorry, man. Mine too,” he says quietly.  
“Yeah?” Dean silently curses the beer as the thought of this over-grown puppy of a man being all alone in the world makes hot tears needle behind his eyes. “That’s…” he blows out a steadying breath. “That sucks. ‘M sorry, Sammy.”  
His hand lands on Sam’s shoulder and he is shocked by how warm his is all over again. His thumb rubs a soothing arc over Sam’s deltoid, the rough fabric of the Sandover-issue tee making the pad tingle. Sam leans into the touch.  
“I was little when I lost them. But I think…I remember someone used to call me that. Sammy.”  
“You mind?”  
Sam smiles. Dean watches the way light makes the colours in his eyes glint.  
“No. I like it. Makes me feel...home.”  
Dean thinks of the parents and baby brother he barely knew, his home, lost to fire and smoke and ash. He’s used to being lonely, to not belonging, but this guy makes him ache for more. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, barely registers Sam’s face getting closer to his. He nearly jumps out of his skin when the soft, delicate skin of Sam’s lips catches tackily against his own, a fleeting touch. Sam’s head jerks away.  
“Shit! Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean – I don’t normally, I mean I’m not -”  
Dean scoots back to his own side of the couch. What the fuck just happened? Sam tried to kiss him. He’s not entirely sure he didn’t want him to. Sam’s still talking, smoothing his palms nervously on his thighs, trying to get as far away from Dean as possible while sitting on the same three-seater, but Dean can’t process what he’s saying.  
“Dude.” Dean’s voice is scraped raw. “I’m not like that. I’m sorry if I let you think-”  
“No!” Sam interrupts, getting to his feet and shoving his laptop back into the case. “I’m not either, I mean I’ve never, I wouldn’t normally…look, I’m gonna go. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what happened there.”  
Dean watches, slack-jawed and grasping for something to say that will make this better, as Sam blows out of the apartment, the front door slamming behind him.

Dean doesn’t get any sleep that night. He lies, staring at the ceiling, watching the light gradually change and tries not to touch himself when he remember the way Sam’s warm breath felt against his lips.

Thursday  
Dean sits at his desk, more tired than he can ever remember being. He is listening to his laptop whispering to him and wondering if he is going insane. You hear about it, don’t you? Young professionals just losing the plot after working fourteen hour days for years. The smallest thing can trigger a meltdown. Maybe Sam’s a figment of his imagination. An embodiment of his latent homosexuality or something. That strikes him as funny. Maybe he really is cracking up.  
Which reminds him. The laptop. It’s whispering.  
“Dean? Dean? Can you hear me? Open it. You need to open it.”  
Dean scrubs his hand over his face. He needs to get out of here. He resists the urge to run out of his office and past his PA’s desk, ignoring her when she looks up, and walks briskly to the bathroom. Once inside, he splashes cold water on his face and looks at himself in the mirror. His green eyes look frightened. It shocks him. There are dark smudges under them and the fine lines at the corners seem etched deeper today. He drinks some cold water straight from the faucet and wets his face again before taking a leak and washing his hands. He takes his time getting back to his desk, and starts when he swings his office door open to find Sam leaning against it.  
He looks older than he did last night. Perhaps he didn’t’ sleep so well either. Dean wonders if he spent all night playing don’t jerk off thinking about some guy you just met at work as well. He can’t decide if that would make him feel better or worse.  
“Hey,” says Sam.  
“Hey,” Dean fires back.  
They watch each other for a few heartbeats and then Sam’s floodgates open.  
“Look, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I don’t know what came over me. I’m not into guys – at least I didn’t think I was – but you were there and I was…and it was exciting – this thing with the computer – and I was a little drunk and I guess I haven’t had a real friend for a long as I can remember, and I got carried away and I shouldn’t have done that, man, and I’m sorry. And you can kick my ass if it makes you feel better, but I really hope – and I know I don’t have any right to – but I do, I hope we can still be friends ‘cos I know we just met and this isn’t making me seem any less weirder, but I kind of feel like now I’ve met you, I’d hate to not ever see you again. Like really hate it.”  
Dean realises Sam is finished, and he takes a deep breath because just listening to Sam made him lightheaded. It sinks in, what he’s talking about, and it dawns on Dean that he feels the same. Relief washes over him. He allows himself a little smile.  
“Yeah. I know. Me too. I’d hate it if -” Don’t say I lost you – “if we couldn’t hang out.”  
Sam smiles, and those dimples are like the sun coming out after a month of rain. Jesus Christ. Now he’s thinking in odes.  
“So we can work some more on the computer thing? Because I couldn’t sleep last night so I looked through the list of anagrams we generated and I wanted to see if these rang any bells.”  
Sam digs in his pocket for a piece of paper.  
“I’m hearing voices,” says Dean because he can’t think of a not-weird way to put it. “From the laptop. It was speaking my name. It said open it.”  
Sam blinks a few times.  
“So did you?”  
“What?”  
“Open it?”  
“Open what?”  
Sam puts his hands on his hips, shifts his weight and then back again like he’s trying to compose himself.  
“How did you ever make Director? The laptop, doofus!”  
Dean swallows. He feels really fucking stupid.  
“In my defence I didn’t sleep so well either. I had things on my mind.” He lets that hang in the air between them until Sam looks away. Dean Smith – 1, Sam Wesson – 0. “So open it now.”  
Sam approaches it slowly and flicks the computer open.  
“Nothing. No whispering, no interference, no anagrams.”  
“I swear, Sammy, it was talking.”  
“OK,” Sam spreads his hands in supplication. “I believe you. I just, I’ve never had to deal with a haunted computer before. This is a first for me.”  
“Been a week of firsts for me too,” Dean says and then wishes he could rip his tongue out and throw it away when Sam shoots him a look which is tarnished with something that looks an awful lot like arousal.  
“Come to mine tonight,” Sam says. “After work. We’ll look at some of the anagrams I found.”  
He snatches up a pen and scribbles something on the pad of Post-Its on Dean’s desk. My address. I’ll pick us up Chinese food on the way back. You like Chinese food?”  
Dean thinks MSG intolerance; Dean thinks additives; Dean thinks poor quality, unidentifiable meat. But he tamps it all down and nods instead.  
“Sure.”

 


	2. Keep Checking the Horizon

 

 

Friday  
Dean sleeps through his alarm.  
When he finally shows up to the office, Adler calls Dean into his office and tells him to go straight home again because he looks like Hell and he’s no good to anyone. He says to make sure he gets some rest at the weekend, and maybe think about taking a few days’ vacation next week. He says he looks like he could use some time on the golf course, or chillaxing at home. Prick. Dean smiles politely and tries not to laugh in his face.

Saturday  
“I’m cooking tonight,” he tells Sam when he comes to pick him up from his small, boxy apartment. “No more take-out.”  
Sam laughs.  
“Oooh, I’m am honoured,” he says as they get into the Prius. “What’s your signature dish?”  
“Steamed bream parcels and a big green salad.”  
“Yum,” says Sam. “And where’s the bit that fills you up?”  
“Humans eat too many carbohydrates, Sam. That’s why we’re a nation of fatties.”  
Sam rolls his eyes and leans forward to change the station. Dean lets him fiddle until he finds a classic rock station.  
“Cool,” Sam says. “Kansas.”  
Dean smiles. He’s never heard of the band, but the song is pleasant enough – something about being dust in the wind – and Sam sings along in this tuneless, earnest, broken voice which should be awful but just makes Dean want to pull the car over and tackle him into a hug.  
He wonders if this is falling in love, this weird, panicky need to be with another person all of the time. He can hardly believe he’s made it all the way to his mid-thirties without ever have felt it before, but it makes sense if it turns out this is the real deal. He’s been looking in all the wrong places.  
When they get back to Dean’s, Sam opens them a bottle of wine and watches while Dean chops lemon and herbs to wrap in foil with the fish fillets. Dean lets him stare for a while and then says,  
“OK, so read me some more of these damn anagrams.”  
Nothing weird happened today, it’s the weekend, and after a glass of Chablis, Dean feels more relaxed about the whole thing. Maybe Adler is right. Maybe he just needs to slow down a bit.  
Sam retrieves his laptop and pulls up a bar stool.  
“A rage on your purity?”  
“Huh?”  
“Outrun a prayer Yogi?”  
“Nope.”  
“A typo in your arguer?”  
“Means nothing.”  
“Gyration a purer you?”  
Dean puts down his knife and goes to the fridge for tomatoes.  
“None of those make any sense, Sammy. They’re not even proper sentences.”  
“OK, I’ll keep looking. Only seventy five thousand more to try.”

They eat and they talk, although Sam seems just as reluctant as Dean to talk about the past. Still, they manage to figure out a lot of stuff they have in common. Actually, Dean might think it was downright spooky – if he hadn’t witnessed downright spooky first hand this week. He can hardly believe he only met Sam on Monday. He feels like they’ve known each other forever.  
After dinner, Sam persuades Dean to knock up a couple of Irish coffees and they retire to the couch where Sam keeps scrolling through reams of nonsense while Dean channel surfs. They are watching a badly dubbed Godzilla film when Dean feels Sam’s head touch his shoulder. He freezes, unsure as to whether it’s intentional or not, but then he hears Sam snoring softly. He very gently extracts himself from under Sam and takes the lap top from him. The webpage with the anagram result is still open. Dean’s gaze flits over a few until it comes to rest on one which makes a lot more sense than the others:  
YOU ARE IN PURGATORY  
Dean shudders. He makes a mental note to flag that one to Sam in the morning.  
He fetches a blanket and tucks it around the giant man on his sofa, making sure his head is supported with cushion so he won’t wake with a cricked neck. He watches the rise and fall of his chest for a while, takes in the pointed shape of his slightly upturned nose, and the little mole right by it. His lips are rosebud pink and slightly parted in sleep. He thinks of watching a child, the brother he never really knew, sleeping in a tiny bed. A kid snuffed out before he became a real person. For such a big guy, Sam’s features are oddly delicate and almost pretty. Dean bites the inside of his cheek, feeling ridiculous for even thinking the word ‘pretty’. He heads to bed and prays Sam Wesson stays out of his dreams.

Sunday Morning  
His prayers go unheard. His head is slightly thick with the residual fug of wine and Scotch when he feels the mattress dip behind to him. He knows he must be asleep, that his fantasy is locked up safely in his head, but part of him is still terrified of the thought of feeling those big hands all over him, however much he may crave it.  
“Dean?” Sam’s voice is sleep-scuffed and close in his ear. “Is this OK? I was freezing on the couch. I just need to get warm.”  
A long arm is draped around his waist, the skin cold, and Sam’s palm pats his belly a few times before settling there. There is a wall of shivering flesh pressed up against his back, and Dean realises with a queasy certainty that this isn’t a dream. Sam is here, in his bed, spooned up against him. Sam is breathing heavily in his ear, the pace of it slowing until Dean thinks he’s dropped off again. He stays carefully rigid, but after what feels like hours he relaxes down into Sam’s embrace and falls asleep.  
The next time he wakes up, the sun is starting to bleed through the drapes, and Sam’s hand has wormed its way up and under his tee. Sam’s leg shifts and Dean feels that it’s bare against his own, the curly hairs covering it snagging against Dean’s own like Velcro. He must be wearing boxers and that damn aertex shirt. Sam wriggles again, snuffling in his sleep, and this time Dean feels something prod the back of his thigh. He freezes as his own cock starts to throb immediately. It’s been an age since he got laid, and even the slightest suggestion of sexual contact is apparently enough to get his downstairs brain on board. Never mind the fact this is a hulking big guy in bed with him, albeit one who’s been eliciting some confusing feelings from him of late.  
Sam moans hot and moist into the back of his neck and humps his hips forward.  
OK, this is getting out of control. Dean is sticky, a fine sweat breaking out all over him suddenly, and he needs to move. To get Sam to move before this turns into something too awkward for even them to get back from. He punches his own hips forward, trying to arch out of Sam’s reach, and goes to swing his legs off the bed. But Sam’s arm tightens around him and drags him back flush against his chest, ass pulled in to grind against Sam’s very hard dick. Dean feels the heat of it lying heavy against his crack. His own cock twitches helplessly and he squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip as he feels the tip starting to get wet and soak into the front of his boxers.  
Sam’s long fingers swirl around his navel and his lips move softly against Dean’s neck, and Dean realises the bastard is awake.  
“Sam?” he croaks.  
“Hmmm?” Sam sounds blissed out and drowsy.  
“We can’t,” Dean says.  
“Why not?” Sam asks, kind of childlike and a little petulant.  
Dean can’t actually think of a good reason why not and his dick certainly can’t. But there’s something gnawing away deep inside. The feeling that this is wrong. They mustn’t. He puts it down to fact that Sam is a guy. He’s not homophobic – he’s really not. It just doesn’t feel right. But the nagging doubt doesn’t stop him from wanting it badly. Sam is rocking slowly against him now, making these little gasps as he gently rides Dean’s ass through the cotton of their underwear.  
“It’s wrong,” he whispers feebly.  
“Doesn’t feel wrong,” Sam sighs, rolling his hips into Dean, shunting him back and forth. “Feels amazing. We’re not hurting anyone, Dee.”  
Dean’s stomach flips at that childish nickname. There’s something trying to surface. Something wildly important.  
“I know it’s not your usual thing. It’s not mine either.” He punctuates his words with tiny thrusts, the head of his cock starting to probe Dean’s crack.  
Dean’s mildly horrified to feel his asshole flutter in what can only be anticipation. He kind of needs to pee but the pressure on his bladder just gives an edge to his pleasure and he doesn’t want to move. Just wants to lie here and see how this is going to turn out.  
“But it feels so fucking good. So good. Please don’t tell me to stop. Not sure I can stop.”  
Dean groans and pushes back into Sam. Sam slides his hand down over his belly and pushes his underwear down a fraction.  
“Yeah, OK. Do it,” Dean whispers.  
Sam slips his hand into Dean’s shorts, fabric pulling away stickily from the spot where his precome is wicking into it, and gently strokes up and down his hard length.  
“Jesus,” he hisses. “Dripping already.”  
Dean’s glad Sam can’t see his face; his cheeks are ablaze.  
Sam withdraws his hand again, and Dean feels it snake between them to push Sam’s boxers down before his own are tugged away and Sam’s bare dick nudges up against him, leaving a smear of slick across the back of his thigh. Sam paws at his ass, spreads his cheeks apart and lays his cock in between them. He tries a few cautious thrusts and moans long and hard.  
“So good, Dean. What have you done to me?”  
Dean huffs a breathless laugh, feeling the slippery heat of Sam’s cock rubbing up and down over his twitching hole.  
“What have I done? God, Sammy. Never so much as looked at another man and now I’m thinking about letting you stuff that big dick up in me.”  
“Oh my God,” Sam whimpers. Dean feels that massive hand close around his aching cock, just holding him tight as Sam rocks him into it. Dean feels Sam start to push harder, the end of his cock finding its mark, starting to slip just inside. It stings and Dean sucks in a breath, but Sam pulls back before it gets too much and does it again.  
“Just this,” Sam says. “Just a little way. Feels so good. So tight.”  
After half a dozen little presses inside, Dean’s ass feels open and he welcomes each breach. He turns his head and Sam’s mouth finds his. Dean parts his lips and Sam’s tongue licks into him just as the head of his cock pops though the slackening muscles of his asshole.  
“Oh my God!” Sam pants into his mouth and Dean feels warm come ease the way as the force of Sam’s orgasm shoves him another two slick inches inside. Sam’s hand tightens around his shaft and the shocking, hot stretch in his ass is too much. Dean eyes roll back in his head as he comes all over Sam’s hand and the bed, long, tortured spurts which leave him wrung out and aching, his balls tender and bruised-feeling. He clenches down on Sam’s dick, the fullness in his ass and his bladder tipping this over into something he’s never had before.  
Sam is still spasming against him, full body shudders seemingly wracking him as Dean’s pleasure ebbs.  
“Holy fuck,” he rasps. “I’ve never come like that. Ever. I didn’t even know it could be like that.”  
Sam kisses his temple.  
“And we barely even started. Didn’t even get all the way inside. Jesus. Want you to fuck me. Wanna suck you off. Wanna see your mouth on me. God, your mouth is so hot. Wanna try everything.”  
Sam nudges his face until Dean turns into him and then he nips at his plush lower lip.  
“I love your freckles,” he murmurs, nuzzling Dean’s nose with his own.  
There is sweat gluing them together, their tacky skin peeling apart when one of them moves slightly. Sam’s load is cooling and running down between Dean’s legs. Dean shifts and feels Sam’s softening dick slip out of him.  
“OK, easy, Tiger. Plenty of time. Need to shower,” Dean mumbles.  
“Yeah,” Sam agrees, getting up to follow him into the en-suite bathroom.  
Dean feels exposed and broken apart. He thinks about asking for a bit of privacy, but it seems kind of stupid after what just happened, so he shucks his t-shirt and sets the shower running. He turns to see Sam, completely stripped, all that lush brown skin and sharply honed musculature. But that’s not what catches his attention first, and he sees his reaction mirrored as Sam’s gaze slides down to his left pectoral, just under the collarbone.  
It’s a black pentagram inside a flaming circle. They have exactly the same tattoo.  
Dean moves forward and traces the symbol with his finger.  
“Where did you get this?”  
“Honestly?” Sam says. “I got drunk in Vegas. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I don’t really remember anything about it. You?”  
“The same,” Dean says, his heart trying to escape out of his mouth. “What’s going on Sam? Is this some kind of joke?”  
But Sam looks stricken and a little scared.  
“No. I swear.”  
Just then, they hear a bleeping noise, coming from somewhere in the apartment, beyond the bedroom. Sam grabs a towel to knot around his hips and they follow the sound. It’s Sam’s laptop, open on the coffee table. And Dean remembers.  
“The anagram,” he says. “You run a pirate orgy - it’s an anagram of you are in purgatory.”  
Sam’s eyes go wide and he slumps down on the couch, all the colour draining from his face.  
“Sam?”  
“Your parents,” Sam says, staring ahead like he’s seeing something Dean can’t. “What were their names?”  
“John and Mary.”  
Sam nods. He smiles but there’s no humour in it.  
“Mine too. Died in a house fire?”  
Dean loses his balance and has to right himself, like the floor just tilted.  
“Yeah.”  
“And you had a brother called Adam? But you don’t remember him.”  
Dean nods, stunned.  
The computer makes more strange noises, letters appearing on a black screen like they had at Sandover.  
The window. The window. The window.  
Sam and Dean look at each other before Sam gets unsteadily to his feet and they move over to the window. The street below Dean’s apartment looks the same as it always. There are cars and people going about their business. People with kids or walking dogs, or strolling hand in hand with coffee. But as Dean scans the horizon, he realizes something is terribly wrong.  
“Is it just me,” he says slowly, “or are there buildings missing over there?”  
He waits for Sam to focus where he’s pointing.  
“Uh –huh,” Sam agrees. “Yeah. Like everything beyond the LeVeque Tower is just…gone.”  
“That’s impossible,” Dean whispers. The sweat is cooling on his skin, making him shiver. “What’s happening here, Sammy? Am I asleep?”  
Sam shakes his head, his eyes glued to the distance, and Dean watched as trees fade to nothing and patches of sky slowly vanish, solid azure blue becoming paler and paler until it simply ceases to be.  
“Dean!” That voice again, so familiar, coming from the laptop. Louder now and more terrible. “Hurry! Remember!”  
“Remember what?” Dean says, exasperated, coming back to the couch and picking up the machine. “Who are you? What’s happening?”  
The screen crackles as words appear, burning themselves into the screen.  
Cas. I am an angel of the Lord  
Winchesters  
Remember  
Heaven  
Seven  
Dean reads out the words as Sam watches him with a devastated expression.  
“Dean,” he says quietly. I remember. Castiel. He’s our friend. He’s an angel.”  
“What are you talking about,” Dean says through gritted teeth. His mouth is dry and his stomach is in knots.  
“The anagram? You are in Purgatory? It’s true. You’re in Purgatory. With Cas. Remember Dean? This isn’t you. This isn’t your life. It’s Limbo. You’re not Dean Smith. You’re Dean Winchester.”  
A torrent of images falls through Dean’s mind. Monsters that smell of the sea and bleed black blood and an angel in a soiled trench coat. And Sam. Sam watching him with sheer panic on his face.  
“I’m dead?” Dean says.  
Sam nods and Dean can see tears starting in his eyes.  
There’s a rumble from outside, like thunder, and then the building shifts.  
“Earthquake?” Dean asks.  
“No,” Sam replies. “It’s this world collapsing. It’s going to reset itself.”  
“What?”  
“Seven. It’s what he’s been trying to tell us. Seven days – one for each of the sins – and then you go back to the beginning.”  
Dean’s head is spinning. He tries to recall everything the angel said.  
“And the Leviticus quote? What does that mean, Sammy?”  
Sam shakes his head and his tears start to fall in earnest.  
“I’m so sorry, Dean, I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know. I didn’t remember.”  
“Sam? What does it mean?” Dean’s almost shouting now, the world outside the window growling and groaning.  
“It means relations shouldn’t have…relations,” Sam sniffs. His cheeks are flushed.  
Dean feels sick. He sees Sam as a little boy again. The same floppy hair, same eyes which have seen too much. It’s not his imagination. It’s a memory. How could he have forgotten? Sam. His Sammy. His brother.  
“Sam and Dean Winchester. We’re…” he can’t say it.  
Sam nods. “Brothers,” he whispers.  
Dean’s stomach lurches and he hiccups, tries to swallow down the nausea. Caustic bile burns up his oesophagus.  
“You were gone, Dean. You were gone and I tried to carry on. For years I tried but I couldn’t do it anymore. I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”  
Dean’s heart feels like it might explode.  
“Oh, Sammy. What did you do?”

Three weeks ago  
Sam stays on his knees, feels the icy weight of Death’s stare boring into the top of his head.  
“I’ve just about had it with you two,” he says, silver tip of his cane dragging along the dirty warehouse floor. “When are you going to learn that I will not be summoned like some common spirit? You have no idea how insignificant you are in the scheme of things, do you.”  
“So why are you still here?” Sam says. He feels cold metal under his chin and his head is pushed up. Death watches him with eyes that seem to leach what little light there is from the room.  
“I should kill you,” Death says matter-of-factly.  
“Do it,” Sam agrees.  
Death smiles.  
“Oh, I see. This is a suicide mission. How touching. How very Romeo and Juliet of you.”  
“Please,” Sam whispers. “I just need to know where he is.”  
Death yawns. Rolls his eyes. He takes the sharp end of the cane from where it’s pressing Sam’s jaw.  
“If I tell you, do you promise you will both stay dead this time? No more deals, no more tricks. Just let it be?”  
Sam nods.  
“Say it.”  
“I promise.”  
“Very well. Your brother is not in Heaven.”  
Sam’s eyes cloud over.  
“But he’s not in Hell either.”  
“So where then?” Sam asks, clamping his mouth shut when Death narrows his eyes.  
“Patience, Sam, is a virtue you’d do well to learn.” He paces slowly up and down, seemingly lost in thought. “He’s in the no-man’s land between Heaven and Hell. Purgatory. He is too good a man to be left to eternal torment, but not a good enough man to make it through the pearly gates. Not yet.”  
“What do you mean?” Sam can’t help himself from asking.  
“He needs to overcome his sins. To be cleansed before he meets his maker. There are…certain stains on his soul.”  
“Stains?” Sam swallows nervously. “What stains?”  
“Sins of the Seven. Pretty standard stuff. If he can learn to rein it all in, then he gets the golden ticket. He will be saved.”  
Sam nods, mind racing.  
“I know what you’re thinking, Sam. You’ll pop along to Limbo and help him along, yes? But you should know it’s not that simple. Everyone’s individual slice of Purgatory is different. Dean’s living in a construct of his own imagination. There are elements of his old life he might remember, but everything’s jumbled up. Confused. Seven days to overcome the seven sins. All of them. If he doesn’t do it, it’s back to the beginning. Square one. All his memories wiped.”  
“He doesn’t remember me?”  
“No – and you won’t remember him once you enter. The longer you stay, the harder it will be to hang on to the remnants of your real life. There’s no guarantee you’d find him anyway. Do you know how many souls there are there? Billions upon billions. That idiot angel’s been trying to find your brother since they arrived and he’s barely made first contact. His mojo is kaput. What makes you think you’ll have any more success?”  
“Castiel?” Sam is hit with a rush of something which he wishes he could claim is relief, but actually feels a lot like jealousy. He knows he’s being ridiculous. It’s good news. If Cas’s bond with Dean is strong enough to enable him to find his brother in Purgatory, however fleetingly, then Sam should have no problems. Now he just needs to get there. He’s pretty sure he’s served enough time in Hell to prevent him being slung back in, even in spite of the demon blood, heavily diluted but always there in his veins, no matter how much he bleeds. He’s just as certain he’s done too many terrible things to be welcomed into Paradise with open arms just yet. It’s a risk, but one worth taking. “If Castiel found him, I’ll find him.”  
“Well, you don’t need me to tell you what a monumentally stupid idea this is. But when have the Winchesters ever listened to reason when it comes to one another? Just keep this in mind: Dean is trying to overcome his weaknesses. I’m not sure you being there will help with that.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam asks, chest feeling tight.  
“Don’t be naïve, Sam. I think you know exactly what I mean. Why else are we here? You think this is normal? Not even you are that deluded.”  
Death turns and takes a handful of nachos from the table Sam set up earlier. He crams them into his mouth and chews slowly, eyes blissfully closed. He wipes greasy cheese from his lips delicately with a napkin and swallows.  
“Delicious. Oh, one more thing.”  
Sam nods and waits.  
“I trust you know that suicides don’t get into Heaven?”

Sunday:  
“Once I’d decided, it was easy,” Sam says quietly. “Once you give up on life, it soon gives up on you.”  
“What was it?” Dean asks, voice scraped raw. “Vamp? Werewolf? Spirit?”  
Sam smiles sadly.  
“Just a man. A desperate man with bloodstream full of meth and a kitchen knife.”  
Dean swipes the tears out of his eyes with the back of his hand. He catches a glimpse of something else. Colors behind his eyelids, lights bursting in the night sky, brighter than the stars. Fireworks. Sam laughing and throwing his arms up and his head back.  
Remember Heaven.  
“We’ve died before.”  
Sam nods.  
“We died and we were in Heaven. The same Heaven. We’re supposed to be alone when we die, but we’re bonded somehow – like here. We’ve built the same world. We misremembered the same things. Because we’re two parts of the same person, Dean. I only did it because I knew I’d find you. We always find each other eventually.”  
“This is messed up, Sam.”  
“I know. But it kind of makes sense. If you can’t live without someone, the lines are bound to get blurred now and then.”  
Dean looks at his brother, wearing just a towel, ripped torso tense and muscles bunched. He’s beautiful. Dean shouldn’t see that. The loose feeling in his ass, the ache when he squirms on his chair, shouldn’t make him want more. So he can’t quite remember growing up with Sam, holding his hand to cross roads and tucking him up in bed, but that’s no excuse. He shouldn’t be looking at Sam as the world falls apart around them and wanting to taste his skin.  
Sam sits next to him, like he’s reading his minds and traces his pointer around Dean’s tattoo.  
“We got these in our old life to stop evil things taking us over. Do you remember?”  
Dean shakes his head.  
“It’s OK,” says Sam. I’ll remember for both of us. By tomorrow morning, we’ll have forgotten everything again. I need to find you, but we need to remember what we are. We can’t let it get confused. Do you understand what I’m saying, Dean? If we want to get out of here, we can’t give in. I have an idea.”  
Dean nods dumbly as Sam gets up and starts ransacking his drawers and cupboards. Dean notices some of the art from his walls is missing. His coffee maker has disappeared.  
Sam returns with a saucer, matches, some ballpoint pens and a needle. Then he jogs to the bathroom and returns with cotton wool and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.  
“What’s all this?” Dean asks.  
“Everything disappears. Everything except us. We need to keep reminders on us. Tattoos, Dean.”  
“No way,” Dean tucks his arms under his armpits. “You’re not giving me a prison tattoo.”  
“Dean!” Sam’s lips press together and Dean knows that face so well, it blindsides him all over again. “It could help us break the loop. Now where do you want it?”  
Sam snaps the pens and taps the blue and black inks out into the saucer, before striking a match and holding the needle tip in the flame.  
“So what do we get? The less of your amateur attempts at art scratched into my flesh, the better.”  
“What about the Bible reference?”  
“Leviticus? A reminder not to commit incest on my bicep? Yeah, that’s great Sam.”  
Sam sighs and takes the laptop.  
“OK – I’ll look for something more discrete.”  
Sam taps away at the keyboard for a few minutes while Dean watches his DVD collection and books evaporate before his eyes.  
“This?” Sam spins the screen around and shows Dean a series of symbols.  
“What does it mean?” Dean asks warily.  
“They’re Enochian symbols. The language of angels. It means brothers.”  
The computer hums and whirs and blinks on and off a few times. Sam smiles.  
“Cas likes it.”  
“OK,” Dean says, and grudgingly holds out his arm.  
Sam takes his hand and puts it to rest in his lap. He soaks a cotton ball in the antiseptic and carefully cleans Dean’s forearm. Dean realises queasily, that the light touch of his brother’s fingers on his skin is just as exciting as it was earlier. Sam wipes him down then dips the needle in the blue-black ink and methodically starts to push it into Dean’s skin. It hurts, and he takes deep breaths to keep himself steady. He remembers this. Pain. But much worse. Much, much worse. He doesn’t want to unearth these particular memories. So he focuses on his brother. Sam’s brow furrows in concentration as he works, long strands of sweaty hair falling over his eyes. Dean reaches out and brushes them back behind his ear. It gets really quiet outside. Dean thinks maybe they’re the only ones left now.  
When Sam is finished, he dabs at the raw flesh with the alcohol again, and then hands the needle to Dean.  
“My turn,” he says.  
Dean takes the needle and moves to crouch between Sam’s legs. He kneels, and carefully repeats what Sam did for him. His hand is shaking by the time he comes to make the first prick to his brother’s skin. He licks his lips, the smell of sweat and semen ripening on Sam’s body making his heart pound. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears. The rusty tang of blood brings it all back. Snippets of their old life. He can hardly believe that he forgot it, although he understands perfectly why he might have wanted to.  
Afterwards, the sun is setting over a desolate landscape, and they are both covered in smears of ink and blood and Dean says,  
“Come on, let’s go and see if the bathroom’s still there.”  
He leads Sammy by the hand and pulls the towel off him, sheds his own underwear and gently pushes him into the shower. They stand awkwardly for a while, Dean running the faucet until the water is hot.  
“Just because we’re in Purgatory, doesn’t mean we can’t smell good.” He winks at Sam and uncaps the shampoo. He pours some into his hands and reaches up to lather Sam’s hair for him. The soap stings when it gets into the new tattoo.  
“Dean,” Sam says, bending his knees so Dean can massage it into his scalp. “I’m sorry.”  
“What for, Sammy.”  
“I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t bring you back. And now we’re both stuck here. And Cas. I didn’t realise it would be like…I didn’t know we’d -”  
“Shhh,” Dean hushes him by pressing his mouth to Sam’s, and it’s soft and sweet and like coming home, and Dean thinks maybe it doesn’t matter if they don’t remember any of this come morning. Sam manhandles him up against the tiles, bites down on his shoulder and pushes into him so slowly and Dean thinks maybe it’s not such a bad thing that they get to discover this all over again next week. Sam moans into his ear and Dean’s not sure he’ll ever have in him to resist his brother. They are Sam and Dean Winchester – he remembers now. An irresistible force and an immovable object. Sam uses his foot to nudge Dean’s ankles further apart, to spread Dean’s legs wider. He gets even deeper inside and when he sobs Dean’s name into the nape of his neck as his warm seed floods his insides, Dean can’t be absolutely sure this isn’t Heaven after all.

 

 


End file.
